


Hopeless Romantics

by dearcaspian



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Short, before skyhold, dorian pavus is hopeless, mahinnah is also hopeless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 15:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16390085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcaspian/pseuds/dearcaspian
Summary: Dorian knows the grin is there without having to turn. All the same, he doesn’t look away.“I was… only appreciating the finesse with which our Herald handled the earlier fight,” he says. It is half of a lie. “We’re lucky he was able to hear the bandits coming.”“If it helps,” Varric leans in, “he’s completely oblivious.”





	Hopeless Romantics

 

The night was a warm one. Too warm, in fact, for the scattering of flickering fires they all sat around, but there was no other relief from the merciless bite of the bugs come out for the first taste of evening. Mahinnah yawns as he tears his gaze away from the dancing flame, determined not to lose himself in the sleep he so desperately craved before the work on his upper arm was done. It seemed every time they left the relatively safe boundaries of Haven, he came back with an injury boasting of a more spectacular origin than the last. If this were to be how the rest of his journeys with the shems went for as long as he deigned to align with them, future skirmishes were probably not something to look forward to.

He plucks at the collar of his shirt. The fabric, like most of the clothing on his companions’ on the hillside, stuck to his skin. Despite the sun’s falling not an hour ago, the heat refused to retreat back until the morning. The long plait of his hair clings unpleasantly to the back of his neck, loose strands hanging limp in the orange firelight.

“Hold still, would you?” Cassandra says.

“Right. Sorry.” Mahinnah tilts his head ever so slightly. What magical healing could be done for the gash had already been accomplished, but some tenderness and bruising remained. As to why and how Cassandra ended up being the one to wrap clean gauze around the wound’s traces, Mahinnah still wasn’t certain.

“Is practical medicine a talent of yours, Seeker?” he quips, trying to keep his expression smooth. 

Cassandra frowns, lost in concentration. From this angle she looks less like the intimidating soldier who had first held a sword to his throat, and more as someone he could easily stumble upon in a library somewhere, buried in a corner with a pile of books in her lap.

“Not quite. The knowledge I possess from my training as a Seeker, however, is slightly above what the rest of what our current traveling party knows of wound care.”

“Even the healer who came along with us?” he asks.

“The healer, Herald, is afraid of you.” 

Mahinnah’s attempt at teasing quickly fades. “Ah,” he says, mulling the word over like a thick root caught in his throat. “That explains some of his reactions earlier. He appeared to think I was poisonous.”

“This is not poisonous, and you’ll be fine.”

With a final pat she ties the gauze in a neat, sturdy knot. Murmuring his thanks, Mahinnah reaches over and rolls his sleeve back down. 

“Do not trouble yourself with his perception of you,” Cassandra says quietly. She sits back, studying him intently. “He is but one man.”

“One man’s actions may be representative of the majority here,” he remarks, staring back into the fire. “I don’t want them to be afraid of me.”

The Seeker huffs. “Haven is not afraid of you as an individual. They fear the rift, and what it might mean for you to carry that mark on your hand.”

Mahinnah wriggles his fingers. The mark was invisible beneath his gloves, yet he imagines regardless he could see a faint green glow peeking out through the leather stitching.

“If they’re so curious, they could start with a handshake, maybe,” he grumbles. “Not the looks I have been receiving.”

Rising from the ground beside him, Cassandra eyes him with a sincerity which makes him so desperately want to believe what assumptions she held as personal truths. 

“Give them time,” she says. “They’ll come around once they see what you’re working towards for our cause. And do not overstrain your arm. I have no desire to become a full time medic.”

She paces back to the rest of the camp. From where he remains at the edge, his solitary circle of flame one spark against the blaze of the rest, Mahinnah thinks he almost sees a smile on her lips.

At least there’s one human on my side, he thinks to himself. 

A mosquito lands on the back of his hand and he smacks it away, noticing not for the last occasion of the night how bloodied his shirt had become from the earlier fight. There had to be a spare around here somewhere…

 

“Sparkler. Hey. What has your attention so thoroughly?”

Dorian blinks heavily out of his reverie, coming to at the insistent sound of Varric’s voice. He looks to the dwarf next to him. His new friend had a peculiar talent for grinning in a manner he found absolutely insufferable.

“Nothing,” Dorian says. “Merely thinking, is all.”

“Mhm,” Varric remarks. “You’ve been thinking quite a bit this entire evening.”

Like the rest of the troupe, the two sit as far from the fire as they could get while still maintaining relative safety from the tiny wings and scuttling legs of critters just out of sight. The land in itself was pleasant enough but he wished nevertheless to be once again on Haven’s soaring hilltops. Even if it meant bracing the snow, he would take an ice storm over bugs.

“I’m simply admiring how quaint this little uncultivated slice of countryside is which you Southerners have occupied,” Dorian muses. “It’s remarkable. Did you know, I’ve lost count of all the nugs I’ve seen since we started off this morning?”

“Two hundred and one.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

Varric shrugs. “I have to keep myself entertained somehow. Idle conversation can only carry me so far when the scenery doesn’t change.”

“Fair enough.”

Across the clearing, he spots a flash of red hair, nearly indistinguishable among the glimmers of heat and rising smoke. The figure weaves its way intricately around the other members of the Inquisition, a sleek shadow flitting about in the near dark. Smooth, bare shoulders gleam dully, pale skin reflecting in the low light, and Dorian feels his gaze inexplicably drawn up once again to those lean muscles, his attention wholly tied to this silhouette moving past.

Varric clears his throat. “There you go again. What mental debates trouble you now?”

Dorian knows the grin is there without having to turn. All the same, he doesn’t look away.

“I was… only appreciating the finesse with which our Herald handled the earlier fight,” he says. It is half of a lie. “We’re lucky he was able to hear the bandits coming.”

“If it helps,” Varric leans in, “he’s completely oblivious.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” He sniffs. 

“Sure, Sparkler.”

Mahinnah passes a few feet from their incomplete circle, bare feet soundless in the grass. Dorian feels the strange, nonsensical need to hold his breath. The elf lends a wave, one hand grasping a ruined shirt, smile so small as could be considered shy. Then he’s gone, the fluid line of his legs pacing off to his tent, thin hips swaying in a way that was not at all mesmerizing. 

He could travel back in time and return unscathed with the man now out of reach, but couldn’t come up with a single response to a wordless greeting?

Dorian sighs. Varric chuckles, not sympathetic enough to temper his delight.

“Like I said. Oblivious.”


End file.
